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Chapter Text

“Haymitch,” a hazy voice echoed from about a thousand different directions. Then, the world spun. It spun until it honked. 

“Haymitch Abernathy!” 

The man in question snapped his head up, ruffling the goose's feathers that had unfortunately been in the right place to pillow the Victor’s head. 

Haymitch coughed, spewing fumes that made him recoil. “I’m sorry, Darla,” he slurred to the shaken goose, who ran away at the first given chance. 

“Haymitch.” 

He blinked out the pressing rising sun, shaking his head as he did so. He must have fallen asleep on the porch. His eyes had probably closed as he threw the geese food and sipped from his liquor bottle. 

He reached for said bottle—it was the good stuff last night: bourbon from the Capitol with a polished, smooth bite. When his hand grasped nothing but shock and disappointment, he turned to that damned voice. 

“You!” 

Katniss stood in front of him, her bow strung over her shoulder. Her hunting bag looked full, and Haymitch’s slow-waking brain knew a full bag meant she had been hunting for a while. 

The glaring sun also warned him that it was probably close to noon. 

Despite her glower and righteous scowl laced with scolding, she did not hold the triumphant prize of his missing bottle. 

Haymitch groaned, looking around for a common tragedy: broken glass and the waft of wasted fumes. 

He found his broken bourbon bottle to his right, decorating his porch with fine, unwanted sparkles. 

He lay back against the wall in defeat. 

“Are you ever going to give this up?” Katniss demanded pointlessly. 

“Give what up?” Haymitch demanded. 

Katniss stood solidly. “Scattering your porch with broken glass? Using your goose as a pillow?” 

Haymitch scoffed. “Look, sweetheart, if I could, I would never spill another liquor bottle again.” 

“It’s not safe,” Katniss stated flatly. 

It had been almost fifteen years since Haymitch watched Katniss Everdeen be reaped. She had changed quite a bit from that squirrelly sixteen-year-old, but her fighting spirit seldom wavered. 

Except, there was no longer a Capitol or Coin for her to loathe, so Haymitch found himself the victim of her unused ire all too frequently. 

Peeta was likely at work, depending on the day—what day was it, again? Meaning that Haymitch wouldn’t have the baker to come and defend him from his wife’s insults disguised as concern. 

Darla honked off to the side. 

“Some eggs hatched today,” Katniss said, bordering on uninterested, but Haymitch knew her better than that. “So I don’t think they’d appreciate you littering your porch with sharp objects that will cut their goslings.”

Haymitch dared to laugh. “They’re smarter than that, Katniss.” 

Katniss tilted her head toward Darla. “This one isn’t.” 

Haymitch tilted his head toward Katniss in turn. “Then neither are you.” 

Katniss held his stare for a moment far too long for his taste. Sobriety crept up on him unpleasantly. 

This wasn’t her usual concerned lecture. She didn’t drag it out this often. 

“Don’t you think that you should care more about the safety of your flock? Especially their children.” 

“Katniss, good God, what has gotten into you? They rarely come onto the porch. I don’t feed ‘em here. Darla just—” He gestured to the goose, who had the audacity to mirror the concerned look. “—pesters me. It’s probably a genetic defect.

“One thing you two seem to share.” 

He wanted a drink. Withdrawal of any kind frightened him. He stood to retrieve another bottle, but Katniss guided him back to the ground. 

“Stay.” 

She reemerged from his house with water, cheap liquor, and a bag of grain. 

She sat down next to him, passing the bottle (of liquor, thankfully), and tossed some of the grain to Darla away from the glass. 

They sat like that in silence while Haymitch sipped steadily. The heat of summer was still far off, but the air held a tiny chill during midday. Katniss brooded, still. Haymitch could tell that much. Her brain was wired to be a hunter in every way, including how to snare him into a conversation he would either lie down in or chew his own foot off to escape. 

“Haymitch,” she started, and Haymitch braced for the bite of her lecture. 

“I won’t let you around our children if you drink this much.” 

Haymitch tried to blink away how utterly gobsmacked he was. Her face was stony, dead serious. Her gray eyes were like icy steel. Her frown was palpable. She—

Haymitch burst out laughing. The sip of liquor in his mouth spewed out. His belly ached quickly. The geese scattered from the booming sound. 

He dared to look at her when the tears cleared. “Oh, sweetheart, that was a good one. I haven’t laughed that hard since Peeta slipped on mud after a bird shat on his head.” 

Katniss’s mouth didn’t even twitch. “I’m serious, Haymitch.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you are,” Haymitch said, frowning. 

“It’s one thing for a gosling to trip and get cut on glass, which you would be upset about. Don’t deny it.” Katniss exhaled, looking out into the field. “It’s another thing for a toddler, too.” 

Haymitch rolled his eyes and took another swig. “Sweetheart, you ain’t gonna let him knock you up anyway.” 

Katniss’ expression still didn’t budge. “I’m warning you now, Haymitch. You will not drink around our children.” 

“Convenient,” Haymitch grumbled. “How would you define around?” Haymitch gestured to the Mellark residence, which was only a few hundred feet away. “Is my own home too close?” 

“You know I’ve tolerated your behavior for almost fifteen years, Haymitch,” Katniss said bluntly. “It wasn’t appropriate for sixteen-year-olds, and it won’t be appropriate for infants.” 

Haymitch shrugged. “When this hypothetical infant appears—which it won’t—I’ll keep this in mind. What makes you think I would be near your lousy spawn anyway?” 

Katniss stood up, dusted herself off, and threw more grain to Darla. “I’m warning you now, Haymitch. Out of courtesy.” 

Haymitch scoffed, took a long swig, and closed his eyes. 

He decided that he had been rudely awakened both by Katniss’s ill temper and Darla’s waning loyalty. 

The sun had almost set when he woke up to the telltale chirping of goslings. Two of them waddled close to the porch without parents nearby. 

Haymitch grunted, eyeing the glass that still littered his porch. It would take an unfortunate effort to get it lodged entirely out of the wood. The goslings got closer, fluffy yellow feathers blowing in the breeze. 

They wouldn’t make it onto the wood. It was too big of a step, but Haymitch had stumbled to his feet before they got too close. 

The chirped in his hands, not once trying to jump out on the way back to the flock. 

Chapter Text

“Did you tell him?” 

Katniss looked up from the blueberry jam she was scrubbing off the dessert plates. The memory of warning Haymitch to stop his drinking skittered past her vision for a few seconds. 

“Sort of.” 

“Sort of?” Peeta probed, turning from the kitchen island to look at her. He flung the cleaning rag over his shoulder, his gaze pleasantly playful with his blue irises sharpening in disbelief. 

“Sort of,” Katniss confirmed with a shrug. “I told him that he needed to stop drinking if he wants to be in our children’s lives.” 

Peeta blinked and let out a deep breath. 

Katniss braced. 

“And that the first child is on the way?” 

“Well…” Katniss withheld her wince. “He was kind of disbelieving I would let you knock me up.” She let her frustration bubble up and out, knowing what kind of reaction Peeta would give. Her husband had an infinite pocket full of patience for Haymitch. Katniss had a pocket, too—but it was more like the useless pockets that old Capitol fashion placed on women’s pants. 

She turned away from the sink to give him her full attention. “He was drunk. I was tired of engaging with him. I left my message loud and clear.” 

Peeta clearly disagreed with her approach, but he wisely took a moment to think before saying anything. “You couldn't have said we’re expecting now? And maybe added, so you need to come up with a sobriety plan if you want to be in our children’s lives?”

“No.” 

Peeta grabbed the rag again and huffed, resuming his cleaning. 

He didn’t argue, though, because surely he concluded that his wife was right. 

“Listen, Peeta, if you want to break it to him like that, by all means,” Katniss offered with a tight smile, placing a plate on the drying rack. “I warned him, and when it starts becoming obvious that he needs to take my warning seriously…” Katniss cut herself off with a gasp. 

Her husband hummed while his arms were still encircling her. “Starts becoming obvious?” he teased fondly, a cautious palm resting on her midsection. 

“It’s a good strategy,” Katniss argued fondly. 

Peeta seemed hesitant. “Haymitch is better at strategy than either of us. Trying to outplay him is a bad idea, especially when it comes to his drinking. The only thing he ever really thinks about.” He kissed her shoulder and resumed cleaning, mindful that she would need to go to bed soon. 

They couldn’t spend all evening debating the best way to make Haymitch behave in a child-appropriate manner. 

Katniss doubted Haymitch had ever particularly behaved in a child-friendly manner. Which is why (and she wouldn’t admit this to Peeta) she simply declared You will not drink around our children before knowing of their existence. The expectation was set, and if he couldn’t meet it, he would not earn a place in their children’s lives.

If Katniss had come up to him, outwardly pregnant, saying, “I’m going to have a baby, and you may not drink around them,” the first part was too distracting. He would become wholly absorbed in disbelief. Celebrate (by drinking). Be horrified (and drink). 

The good news would be immediately followed by the worst news of his life (if Haymitch even considered a new Mellark baby good news). 

No. Katniss had made the right call. Boundary first. The privilege of knowing she was pregnant was second. And only after he proved that he knew the boundary. 

And it was a privilege. Katniss had only told her mother yesterday. 

Haymitch could wait. 

Peeta didn’t like to disagree with Katniss about anything. Especially about Haymitch. 

He was their shared oddity. Their shared responsibility. Their shared family. 

But now, they were adding a new addition to the shared family, and the shared family didn’t know it quite yet. 

Peeta disagreed with that. 

But it was Katniss’s pregnancy. It was enough on her both physically and mentally without adding Haymitch, who was a headache himself. 

Peeta rubbed his head with a groan as he stepped into his home, coughing from the fumes he had endured in Haymitch’s domain. 

Katniss grimaced as he walked in the door, and Peeta smiled through his coughs as she came to embrace him. Their house smelled infinitely better, like slow-cooked meats wrapped with dough. 

“He hasn’t slowed down,” Peeta commented halfway through their meal. 

Katniss scoffed. “Figures.” 

“Katniss,” Peeta said thoughtfully, “maybe it’s time we tell him.” 

Katniss froze, but then resumed eating. “That’s your call. I already communicated with him my expectations.” 

Given how Haymitch almost burned down his house in a drunken stupor and then proceeded to drink more within the next ten minutes while Peeta frantically doused the entire stove with water several times over about an hour ago, Peeta wasn’t exactly keen on believing Haymitch could stop drinking willingly, even if his psychosis-girlfriend told him to. 

“Katniss,” Peeta said, minding each of his words, “he’s not going to be able to do that.” 

Katniss said as bluntly as the dullest knife in the drawer. “Our children deserve the best. And the best doesn’t include a drunk who burns his house down.” She took a forceful bite of food. “So, let him make his choice. If he wants to drink, he can, and he can wait to sober up to be around our children.” 

Katniss had always been better at handling Haymitch. Probably because they eerily mirrored each other in certain areas. They were both fond of casting the other out when deemed necessary.

But they always returned to their mentor-mentee relationship. 

So, even if Katniss did give him the cold shoulder for the first year or so of the baby’s life, she would inevitably let him back in when she—they—needed him. 

Or when Haymitch needed them. 

Peeta sighed before giving his wife a carefully crafted concession. Her expression got sharper. She was an expert at his benevolent deception techniques, but she let him go without interrogation. 

Once Katniss soundly slept in bed, Peeta made his way back to Haymitch’s domicile. All of the windows had been left ajar for maximum ventilation, so the house was a crisp chill even when Peeta opened the door. 

Haymitch dozed on the couch in relatively clean clothes. A mostly full liquor bottle rested in a tight crook of his arm. 

Peeta grumbled to himself momentarily before starting to search, then promptly gave up looking for a blanket. 

“Haymitch.” 

Peeta stood back about ten feet, bracing for the inevitable swing. 

Haymitch didn’t stir, which gave Peeta more time to come up with a plan of attack. 

A sickly chill crept up from Peeta’s fingertips to the tips of his fingers as they touched the handle of the liquor bottle, slowly turning the glass into his grip. 

He yanked with no hesitation. If he dawdled, Haymitch’s lightning-fast reflexes would have caught up to him before he could get the bottle away. 

Which is precisely what he tried to do. 

But Peeta had a head start. 

Haymitch awoke, clambering to his feet, charged at Peeta, and bellowed an inhuman cry of rage: “GIVE ME MY BOTTLE BACK, BOY!” 

“Katniss is pregnant.”